


Organic Matter

by armageddonkey



Category: Rock & Rule
Genre: Discussion of Death, Friendship, Gen, Sad, this won't make any sense to anyone i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armageddonkey/pseuds/armageddonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In that technical-yet-romantic sense, yes, everyone was slowly dying. But Stretch made that entire thing seem different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Organic Matter

We are nothing but organic matter. Every second of every day, we are slowly dying.

Dizzy read that in a book once. A human book, some dusty termite-chewed novel he found in his father’s archive. That was years ago, and he’d mostly forgotten it, the story fading from memory like millenia-old ink on yellowed pages. But that one quote stayed with him. Came back to him sometimes, when he woke up too early and smelled atomic waste washed up by another midnight storm, rising in damp waves off the ground. Smelled death, sharp and metallic, rising right out of the earth.

We are nothing but organic matter. Every second of every day, we are slowly dying.

Only sometimes did he catch himself thinking that, and rarely did he remember where he got it from. That always got a close-lipped chuckle out of him, then a shameful flutter of eyelids behind thick lenses. He shouldn’t be thinking about that, not when he was already surrounded by it, and no one else ever paid any mind. Death, that was. Everyone else looked at this town, walked in its acid-washed skid rows and kicked dirt off their shoes with at least 200 microsieverts in it, and that was just life. Life was death, if you wanted to get really deep about it. It’s what they were born out of.

A human wrote that quote. Humans were organic matter, too. Every second of every day, they were slowly dying. Though humans might not have thought about it as much. They probably weren’t reminded of it quite so often. Humans may have blown each other up, smacked their entire race upside the head with death they thought was so far off. But surely before that, they were happier than anyone was now.

That’s not to say Dizzy wasn’t happy. Even if that morbid thought crossed his mind so often he rarely realized, he didn’t let it weigh him down. He had a band, and a shitty trailer with his band, and a pair of glasses that were only slightly off-prescription. And he had Stretch.

Dizzy always woke Stretch up in the morning. If Omar or Angel did it, he would mumble “okay” from under the blanket, face smushed into the couch’s holey armrest, then go back to snoring. When Dizzy shook him and he finally sat up, his eyes snapped wide in the morning sun, then drooped back to sleepiness, heavy over a dazed smile. Dizzy smiled back, and the slight furrow of brows wasn’t just “oh, what am I going to do with you.” It was because Stretch’s smile looked somehow pained, too. 

As Dizzy made his way back to the kitchen, he heard the crack of bones, only because he was listening for it. Never could help looking over his shoulder. In the mid-morning sun, you could see every bump of the spine, poking against the skin of Stretch’s bare back. The ridge of ribs. Blotches and bumps rippling with the roll of shoulders, straightening himself, then the exhale as he slumped.

We are nothing but organic matter. 

The clink of the spoon as Dizzy stirred his tea, casual. The slap of bare feet on stained tile as Stretch walked in, ducking under the 6-and-a-half foot doorway. The mumble of good mornings, Dizzy unable to focus on whatever Angel was talking about, whatever song Omar was trying to find on the radio, because he thought behind too pale barely blue eyes there was still something hurting.

Every second of every day, we are slowly dying.

That was the only time the thought bothered him.

In that technical-yet-romantic sense, yes, everyone was slowly dying. But Stretch made that entire thing seem different. He was different. That was the first thing Dizzy ever learned about him. Looking at the pallid skin, when they first met, the awkward nose, the bones that poked even out of his face, odd features that didn’t belie any one species. He first told Dizzy, in an shaky mumble, that he was a rat, then a dog, then a weasel. Dizzy wondered how many times this poor mutant kid lied to how many people, and almost felt bad that it didn’t fool him.

That was what made them so close. “Tight,” as Omar always said, “you guys are so tight,” with an edge that would seem jealous, except that was always how he talked. Dizzy never felt proud, just happy. Because being close to Stretch didn’t give him any special merit. Even if he was the first one to show a shred of tolerance and understanding for something that demanded to be hidden, that Stretch never admitted to anyone before. That was just doing what was right, and warranted nothing.

Because Stretch wasn’t a burden. Looking out for him, calming him down before shows, making sure he had no new tumors or spots, none of that. It was just what best friends did, “mutant” having no bearing on it.

That’s not to say it didn’t affect things. Dizzy was a worrier by nature, and every day, there were moments when his heart ached, because they passed a police car, or some big billboard for Mok’s latest tour, and he saw Stretch tense. Sometimes he pulled the brim of his hat down, as if hiding. He passed fine, he had for years now, but those reminders that they lived in that system, even little old Ohmtown, where he could be found out and that would be the end, that was what gave Dizzy nightmares, had him jarring awake in bed with the smell of death in the air.

Sometimes weeks went by, and Dizzy relaxed somewhat. Less compulsions, less sudden needs to find Stretch in case something terrible had happened when every time he was safe in bed, staring off, fooling around on his bass. And then one morning he’d walk up, eyes round and unblinking, and say real soft, “Diz, look.” His own hair in his palm, coppery brown locks of it in his hand. It was never just strands, or even clumps, but stick-straight pieces of it.

Dizzy would fret, “oh no,” “don’t touch it,” “when did it happen,” “are you okay.” He’d put Stretch’s hat on extra gentle, but extra secure. He’d take him to the arcade or buy him an ice cream, do something that was nothing. Because there was nothing he could do. Even if Stretch smiled, laughed his weird laugh, and threw a bony arm round Dizzy’s shoulders, there would still be thin locks of hair in the trash, strands stuck to the inside of his cap. Reminders, just like the cop cars and billboards, like panic attacks and bumps of a spine, that he was decaying.

Decaying. Like a sample of radon. Crooked teeth, knobby knees, sunken cheeks, floppy ears, and eyes that never seemed focused. Stupid jokes, an infectious laugh, off-kilter remarks, video game hi-scores, and frenetic chicken scratches on a bass.

And Dizzy wanted to cry. Not Stretch’s fault. Not anyone’s. Maybe God’s, if you wanted to get really deep about it. God’s fault, whoever He was, the one in that other human book, or someone else. God’s fault for creating life that, from the start, was slowly dying. Even Stretch. Especially Stretch.

Dizzy knew.

He wondered if Stretch knew.

We are nothing but organic matter. Every second of every day, we are slowly dying.

Stretch was dying just a little bit faster.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe this is the first rock & rule fic here. i apologize to everyone who worked on this film and also to you for reading this because it heavily involves my own theories and i'm not sure if i explained them right?? happier and more palatable fics will arrive in the future. maybe. if world war III doesn't happen anytime soon.


End file.
